Apache Country by Frederick H. Christian

voice. When Ironheel nodded in reply, the sheriff looked at
Easton triumphantly. There you are, his expression said. They
already knew Weddle had spoken to Charlie Goodwin. If the other
call had been to Ironheel’s sister, that was the end of the
mystery. It wouldn’t be hard to check.
    “What’s your sister’s name?” Easton
asked.
    “Joanna.”
    “That’s Joanna Ironheel, yes?” Joe said.
“Where does she live?”
    “Whitetail Canyon, up near Highcroft on the
Mescalero Reservation.”
    “She in the book?”
    Ironheel nodded. “What happens now? What
about the arraignment?” he said.
    “You’ll still appear,” Easton said.
“Nothing’s changed.”
    “Will the court appoint another lawyer?”
    “You’ll get your lawyer,” Apodaca told him,
testily. “First, though, you need to tell us why Weddle went out of
here in such a hurry?”
    Ironheel shrugged, his face immobile. “I told
you. He said something about having a lot of work to do.”
    “That’s all?”
    “That’s all. Why don’t you believe me?”
    “Make a guess,” Joe gritted.
    The sneer made Ironheel’s brows knit in
anger. He turned slowly to face the sheriff, his whole body tense,
the dark eyes flashing anger. His voice was held-in tight when he
spoke.
    “Is that right, prisoners don’t have to talk
to anybody if they don’t want to?”
    Apodaca glared back at him. “That’s right,”
he rasped.
    “Then you’re done here,” Ironheel snarled.
“Aal bengon yáá!”
    He threw himself back on his cot, put his
hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling, stolidly
ignoring their presence. Easton had seen that stony face before; it
meant there would be no more talking.
    He looked at the sheriff. In all the years
they had worked together he had never seen Joe lose control like
this. But there it was, as blown as a fuse. He raised his eyebrows
and cocked his head toward the buzzer on the wall. The sheriff got
the message and nodded curtly.
    Easton pushed the buzzer and they stood in a
fraught silence until Hal Sweeney came hurrying along the corridor
and let them out. As the deputy slid the cell gate shut Easton
glanced back over his shoulder. Ironheel was looking right at him,
and once again he saw something unsaid in the Apache’s dark eyes.
This time there was no mistaking what it was. Please. Then the door
clanged shut.
    Apodaca marched angrily down the corridor
ahead of Easton and Sweeney, his arms pressed tight against his
body, his face dark with inwardly-directed anger. He knew he’d lost
the plot and he was mad with himself. He didn’t speak until they
were back in the receiving office. Then he put both hands flat on
Sweeney’s desk and leaned forward.
    “All right, Hal,” he said, without preamble.
“I want you to go over everything that happened here last night.
Don’t leave anything out.”
    Sweeney nodded, watching the sheriff’s eyes
anxiously.
    “You mean about that Weddle guy, right?”
    “Right. How long did they talk?”
    Sweeney thought mightily. “Ten, fifteen
minutes.”
    “Then he asked to use the interview
room.”
    “Right.”
    “When they were through you took Ironheel
back to his cell, then let Weddle out. That how it went?”
    “Ahuh, right.”
    “Okay, how did he look?”
    Sweeney looked puzzled. “How do you
mean?”
    “Was he calm? Excited?”
    Sweeney gulped. “Jesus Criminy, Joe I just
let him out is all. I didn’t look to see how he felt.”
    Apodaca made an exasperated sound. “But you
said he left in a hell of a rush, right?”
    “Like I told you. Couldn’t get out fast
enough,” Hal said with an anxious-to-please smile.
    “And that’s it?” Joe sneered, laying the
contempt on with a trowel. “You’re supposed to be a goddamn cop,
for Chrissake!”
    Hal Sweeney stared at him, his face flushed
with humiliation.
    “What did he say?” Apodaca rasped
impatiently. “What were his exact words?”
    Sweeney thought hard. “He said, I have to go,
make some calls. I